


Evidence of Things Unsaid

by sheron



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Civil War Fix-It, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Everyone Needs A Hug, Fandom Stocking 2016, First Kiss, Fix-It, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Natasha Is a Good Bro, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Post-Civil War (Marvel), Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Tony Stark Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-16
Updated: 2017-01-16
Packaged: 2018-09-16 14:03:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9275120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheron/pseuds/sheron
Summary: The Avengers (and ex-Avengers) are forced to socialize at a PR event. Why is there never a monster around to attack New York when you need one?





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Knowmefirst](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Knowmefirst/gifts).



> I jumped on the opportunity to try writing Steve/Tony when I saw that it was one of the possible pairings for the fandom stockings challenge. The _Civil War_ movie has left me with a lot of unresolved feelings about all the issues between these two, only a couple of which are slightly addressed here.  
>  I hope you enjoy the story!

 

"This is going to be a disaster," a whine from Clint's corner.

"Calm down, everything is fine." Tony said with a certainty he didn't feel and squared his shoulders. "If we can fight aliens together, we can stand around in the same room." 

Nobody was looking forward to rubbing elbows with Ross at the reception, but Clint was the only one of the three of them consuming alcoholic drinks. As tempting as it was to make a comment that he should think of his wife and kids, Tony had somehow managed to clamp down on any such remarks in view of the last time he'd opened his mouth on that subject.

"Where is a purple faced alien when you need him," Natasha lamented from her spot between them. She didn't look cold despite the backless blue satin dress. She held a stillness coiled inside her, like a spring waiting to be set off in case either one of them did or said anything they shouldn't. It had to be exhausting being on constant alert that way. Tony knew something about that. Natasha didn't really need to worry about him and Clint. Things had been touch-and-go on the first mission together, but a bit of life-and-death peril, a couple of saved civilians between them, and a repulsor beam at the right time in the right place, and then they were walking down the corridor at the compound, and Clint had cleared his throat and said, "See ya, Tony," and even made an awkward, aborted wave at him, before heading his own way. So as far as Tony was concerned they'd made up. 

Clint and he were never that close anyway. Clint was mostly here because Nat said it looked good in the papers if the majority of the superheroes present at the gala were unenhanced humans. So the three of them were there to be as non super as possible. Thor had been conveniently summoned to another realm, and Bruce was seeking the path of enlightenment in some place that had to be the furthest distance on Earth from this glitzy New York post-victory gala. Rhodey was half-way across the world, liaising. Tony tried not to think about the location of Steve's (previously brainwashed and now very-much-not) bestie. Sam would bring their normal human ranks up by one more, counterbalancing the other three.

Vision and Wanda had shown up earlier, to a slight hush in the crowd mingling in the main room, but they'd found an alcove to seclude themselves in and were for all intents and purposes ignoring the outside world, talking quietly to one another. At least some of them could still do that without fraying at the edges.

Ever since the Secret Avengers ― or whatever ridiculous thing they called themselves now ― joined the remaining Avengers to fight the latest global threats, they'd all had to cozy up to the new normal, where each sentence was a potential minefield. Tony had somehow imagined that it couldn't get any more awkward than the first face-to-face meeting between the two teams (the official and non-official Avengers) but he was ready to admit that they'd blown past 'painful discomfort' and straight into 'don't even know what' with a side of 'get me out of here'. It had to get better at some point, simply because if it got any worse it would literally wrap around back into awesome. Or they would try to kill each other, which Tony had first-hand experience with and would rate "zero out of ten, do not recommend" as life choices went.

Speaking of life choices, he was badly regretting not joining Clint in pre-drinking on their little veranda, hiding outside, under the invisible stars. They'd have to stop that at some point, go out into the main hall and mingle, take PR photos with Ross who had positioned himself as the man to reconcile the warring camps of Avengers. So basically that whole goddamn theory of wrapping back around had worked out for him, and Ross was back to using them for something more than pretty prison-cell decorations. It was hard to argue against the public support swinging back behind anyone who defended the Earth from galactic threats. Rationally, Tony knew this was a good thing. Far better than the endless tug-of-war over the accords and threats of Raft prisons they'd faced initially. All they had to do currently was stand around, shake hands and smile.

So it was regrettable that Tony couldn't feel what expression was on his face when Steve and Sam entered the main room from the doors opposite their veranda.

Although Tony and Clint didn't have much to say to one another anymore, it was possible to exchange a couple of meaningless words with Clint the way you did with former teammates you hadn't seen in a while (it was six months, but felt longer). Similarly, exchanging pleasantries with Sam was easy.

Tony got the impression that Sam actually liked him, for some bizarre reason. It was odd, but Tony wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth. Back at the Raft when the others had railed against him, Sam had somehow found it within himself to trust Tony, believing that he'd had the purest of intentions in wanting to know Steve's location, which just so happened to be true. Sam also asked about Rhodey every once in a while, which opened up channels of communication and basically made him alright in Tony's eyes. So when the two of them approached the rest of the group on the veranda, and Sam smiled, Tony thought nothing of reaching out to shake his hand. 

Which was a strategic error, because Steve stood right next to Sam.

Prior to this, they'd spent a couple of weeks occupying the same rooms and hallways, making strategic plans while existing in the same space, fighting to defend the Earth side-by-side. Not talking unless it was necessary for the benefit of the mission, and even then as little as possible. Steve had tried to say something that first day back, but an emergency klaxon had sounded and soon they had more important things to worry about. Tony's brain tended to white-out into static around Steve anyway. Without the threat of imminent destruction to shake him out of this fugue state, that was pretty much what happened now.

Tony froze up as soon as it occurred to him that he had to shake Steve's hand next. He couldn't even blink, let alone put his hand out there to be shaken. It was like his brain errored out and shut down. It was awful.

Steve stood at something like the parade rest but not quite as formal, his hands at his sides. He looked handsome. The dark suit highlighted how pale he was and the overhead lights struck his neatly parted blond hair at just the right angle to turn it golden. Tony hadn't seen him outside his stupid new uniform since. Since. 

Tony wanted to make his hand move but he couldn't. He just. He could not move.

Couldn't make himself reach out even knowing what it looked like when he took Sam's hand and not Steve's. Like he was doing this on purpose. (He wasn't!) He could have really used a glass in his hand right about then, an excuse to hold something. Steve had started to lift his own hand out to shake before he realized that Tony wasn't moving. You could just see it strike him, the perceived rejection.

Steve clenched his lips together briefly, and he straightened a little, lowering his hand, his expression becoming fixed on something he probably thought of as patience, but which looked to Tony like utter exhaustion.

Natasha saved the day by stepping forward and putting both hands on Steve's shoulders. She didn't quite hug him, but she leaned in close in a semi-embrace, and air-kissed the side of his face in greeting. Steve looked about as grateful as Tony felt. Thank god for Natasha.

She greeted Sam the same way. The two of them said some sparse words, some kind of frivolous niceties one said at parties like this. Everyone gave a brief, try-hard laugh, even Steve, who was now looking everywhere but at Tony with his typical suave nonchalance. 

The awful moment seemed to have passed. Tony was breathing again, and he was apparently saying something inane about the view from the veranda. His mouth was moving and words were coming out and nobody looked at him like he was crazy so it all probably made sense. Steve's presence was a gravitational pull, sucking out all the colors from the room until he was intensely aware of every shift, every ripple of clothing from the man at his side. Tony cast about for a waitress, gesturing when he caught her eyes. He just wanted something to hold in his hands. Something to press to his left brow, suddenly pulsating with a headache he hadn't realized was there. He just wanted the earth to swallow him whole. 

When the idea for the party had first been floated in Tony's hearing range he had almost looked forward to it, despite the inner voice urging caution. It was the first chance they would have to see each other in a non-combat context. They could work seamlessly out in the field, as Captain Rogers and Iron Man, skipping over any idle chatter that had peppered the comm waves in years past. After the fighting was over, they went their own ways. The most casual exchange of words between them had been 'thanks' and 'no problem'. Tony had been looking forward to the party setting where he would smile and say offhandedly, "Cap, how's it going?" and maybe Steve would respond with a casual sentence of his own, and they would have an actual human conversation for once. Just to prove they could. Tony had actually looked forward to it while not sleeping and hardly eating for two days.

The waitress brought a tray of drinks, and Tony reached out to snatch one. Of course, Steve turned around and with a look of relief reached for the same glass at the same exact moment. Their fingertips brushed, the glass crashed to the floor breaking into a thousand little pieces.

The babbling waitress apologized and ran off to get a broom to clean up the mess. Steve and Tony just stood there for a moment, looking at the glass shards on the floor in some kind of shock.

"Oh yeah, everything is _fine_ ," Clint said into his glass, sotto voice, and took another sip.

Which is when Steve decided to crouch down and begin to gather up the broken pieces.

"What are you doing?" Tony heard himself say. He was staring at Steve, taking one of the bigger glass shards, using it as a platter to gather the littler pieces in. "What are you even doing?" he repeated.

Steve glanced up at him briefly. His face had finally found that long sought after patient look that drove Tony crazy. It was some kind of weaponized patience specifically designed to elevate Tony's blood pressure. Tony saw him become more Captain America right there, even without the uniform or his abandoned shield, sucking up all the righteousness in the room into the condensed blue of the eyes burrowing into Tony. "I'm helping to clean up the mess," Steve said ― also patiently.

"Uh. Why?" Tony wasn't sure why he needed to know at this particular moment. Steve was pulling the little fragments of glass off the floor with his bare fingers one by one, and with every sliver Tony felt the muscles in his chest clench when Steve picked it up and unclench when he avoided cutting himself. The super soldier healing would probably take care of it in minutes, but. It was the principle of the thing.

He realized that Nat had grabbed Clint and Sam by the elbows and they headed out to the main floor, ditching the two of them. Which was sort of fine because Tony was not oblivious to the fact that he and Steve were almost talking here. This was more words than they'd said to each other outside of combat for six months.

"Someone has to try," Steve said because he was an asshole who didn't even have to work very hard to make Tony feel bad. He did it just by breathing. It was a secret superpower he had.

"Are you saying I'm not?" Tony snapped. It wasn't his fault that's what it looked like to Steve, because of the stupid handshake; because Tony was doing the best he could, he really was. The fact that he was in this very place, wanting to speak with Steve and make things work between them after _everything_ was just. (It was unbearable). When Obie had betrayed him, Tony had had a clear vision of what he was supposed to do, a sense of purpose, but with Steve there was nothing. He couldn't even say he hadn't deserved what happened. After all, if Steve hadn't told him the truth because he was afraid of how Tony would react, hadn't Steve been proven right? (And if he hadn't been in so much pain, would he still have reacted as he had? Didn't he deserve a chance to know?) The point was, if Steve thought he was the only one trying here, he was _out of his mind_. It wouldn't have hurt half as much if he hadn't been trying.

Steve paused in his task and looked up at him. "Are we still talking about the broken glass?" he asked slowly.

They were and they weren't. Tony crouched down next to him, quickly picking up the harder to reach shards by his own feet and dropping them into the cradle of glass in Steve's palm, as he said, "Same difference," in a mocking tone, because he could do asshole, too, and better.

He immediately felt terrible, of course, because Steve's face ― his face that was so close, and so familiar, and so kind ― lost some of that patented forbearance at his derisive comment, and now Steve just looked fatigued again. Like he was on the verge of giving up. It was terrifying.

Tony cast about for more shards, stomach sinking, anything so he wouldn't have to look at the expression on Steve's face. So he wouldn't have to know if Steve gave up on this, on them. Steve's pathetic little tries at shoring himself up that fell apart at the first rough wind made Tony acutely miserable. If only he could ever convince himself that Steve truly didn't care, then he could learn to hate the bastard in peace instead of... this. This hurt. This was Tony pouring salt on open wounds, which was fine when he did it in the confines of his own head, but didn't feel nearly as great when he had to actually witness the results of his words showing on Steve's face.

Except that when Tony kept all this anger inside they didn't talk at all. Which was possibly worse? This was painful, but sometimes painful things were necessary. He'd even miss this if he didn't have it, if Steve stopped trying somewhere along the way.

But Steve must have gathered his reserves again, because he pushed on with, "Some things can't be fixed but― Tony, wait." Steve grabbed his fingers and held them.

"What?" Tony blurted out, and didn't attempt to take his left hand from Steve's. It felt like his hand was on fire.

Steve turned his hand over, making Tony look down. As it turned out, it wasn't even Steve's touch that made his skin sting ― although it was also definitely not the little cuts on his fingers that made his heart warm and swell up with a feeling he had no idea what to do with. Steve was gazing at his hand with a mix of anger and concern. The cuts were truly nothing, Tony wanted to apologize for worrying him, a concept which honestly made his mind reel because _he_ was _not_ about to _apologize_ to _Steve_. This was all Steve's fault. Though he wasn't going to say that.

"Sorry," Steve said, as though sensing that there was unclaimed guilt to be had here and pouncing.

"It's fine."

Steve's eyes were sad and kind of disbelieving. Tony was at once furious with him for daring to look like that.

"It's really fine," he insisted.

"I'm really sorry," Steve insisted, immediately. 

He had apologized twice in one minute (and about what!), which was twice more than Tony had heard from his mouth in the months prior (the letter didn't count). Already, Tony was tired of hearing his apologies. Neither one of them was good at talking things through anyway, and action was what mattered. Even if he hadn't managed a handshake with Steve earlier, by some miracle he got another chance now. Tony was great at second chances, he wasn't about to let this one pass him by. So he didn't take his hand back, he just left it to lie in the warmth of Steve's palm and waited.

After a moment, Steve stood, taking Tony's hand with him, which meant Tony had to stand, too. The waitress finally reappeared and Steve deposited the rest of the shards he'd gathered on her tray with a clang, stepping away to the side to let her sweep up the remaining of the smaller pieces. Tony couldn't help but note that Steve hadn't let go of his hand. They were standing out on the veranda, in full view of whoever cared to look, and Captain Steve Rogers was holding his hand. Not that Tony cared about the rest of the room. This was so far beyond anything Tony had hoped for with the simple handshake, this was way past that, and as time ticked by Steve was _still holding his hand_. Steve's brow furrowed and, how about that, Tony wanted to reach out to smooth out the little wrinkle of concern. Steve glanced furtively up at Tony, clearly nervous but persevering the way he always did when his back was to the wall. He was shoring himself up for another blustering attempt at making up and Tony simply didn't have the heart to poke holes in his sails. So Tony just let Steve hold his hand some more.

"We should get this cleaned up," Steve nodded to himself, and tugged Tony to follow.

Tony certainly wasn't going to take his hand back now. Even if his insides were trying to crawl out or possibly shake apart. He could do this all day. Easy. He was fascinated by the tiny frown on Steve's face and the purse of Steve's lips when Tony glanced at him sideways.

The restroom was just down the hallway in the corner, thankfully empty.

Tony let Steve do his thing, examine the tips of his fingers, try to pick out any remains of glass. Steve held the hand by the wrist at pulse point with one of his, and worked with the fingers of the other hand in his examination. Then Steve set the water to run, tested it to make sure it wasn't too hot or too cold, and gently tugged Tony's fingers under the stream. Silently and without looking at Tony, who just stood there passively letting Steve tend to his hand. Tony was silently elated. He had had people touch him with this kind of tender concern before and it had never been because they didn't care. If Steve cared ― and Tony, obviously, or he wouldn't be standing there trying to pretend his pulse wasn't racing under Steve's fingers ― that meant that there was something there to still care about. They hadn't ruined it completely. (Tony hadn't ruined it).

Once he washed the remains of the blood off of Tony's fingers, Steve patted the skin dry with a tissue, touch feather-light. Tony had been wrong, he couldn't remember a second moment of this kind of tenderness. Steve's face had gone all soft, too. His thick golden eyelashes hid his eyes. Like this, Tony had to work very hard not to lean in and kiss him. Steve pushed the hand towards Tony's chest, where evidently he wanted it to remain, bent at the elbow. Tony's inner flirt sat up and took notice of the way Steve's fingers lingered before he let go.

"You should keep that elevated," Steve said solemnly, like it was Tony's first time.

"Sure thing, Cap."

"Do you..." Steve started to say and swallowed, looking nervous again.

"Yes," Tony answered, swaying closer.

Just like that, very quickly, a tiny smirk crossed Steve's lips, there and gone. His eyes, when they met Tony's, looked lighter, somehow. It was a miracle that could happen because of something Tony said or did. A little while back Tony couldn't even fantasize about this situation, swaying ever closer to Steve who didn't back away, at all. For months, he couldn't even picture it without an overwhelming sadness overriding any kind of relief from the fantasy. And here they were, and Steve was flushed, and (probably) interested. Tony decided he wasn't going to think about anything else right then.

Steve said, gruffly, "You don't even know what I was gonna say."

"I think I do," Tony answered, lazily, sweetly.

"Oh, really?"

"Yeah, really." It was like a dance.

Steve's eyes dropped to Tony's lips, before he managed to yank them back up, but he remained stubbornly standing in place and didn't say anything stupid like 'maybe we should stop'. Tony could _so_ work with this. 

" _I_ don't even know," was how little Steve protested.

"Let me show you."

He knew it wasn't the best idea in the world (because of _everything_ ), but it felt like the best idea in the world right then. It was a better idea than the stupid handshake, or anything he'd thought of (fantasized) doing with Steve in the past six months (or, really, for as long as he'd known him). The best idea! Because it was actually going to happen, outside of his head.

Only as soon as he talked himself into doing it, and found himself with his hand gently lying on Steve's cheek that he didn't quite recall putting there, Tony hesitated. This felt too good to be real. It was that fork in the road again, like the handshake, where he could put himself out there and hope for the best, but... What if this didn't mean the same thing to Steve? Tony would just be reaching out with all that he was, pathetically exposed, completely disarmed. Could he really afford to be that open around Steve anymore?

Steve had been gazing at him with a flattering warmth in his eyes, but it was like he saw that something was going wrong behind Tony's eyes the moment it happened. It was actually scary how fast he got it, the way his jaw clenched with something like desperation, before Steve said: 

"No." He grabbed Tony by the shoulders to bring him closer. It felt a lot nicer than it had any right to feel. There was a hell of a lot of determination in Steve's face and a lot of heat, too. Tony tried not to melt into his touch right there and then. "No, we're definitely doing this." And he kissed Tony. Just straight up planted one on him.

At that point pretty much all of Tony's potential objections evaporated like so much hot air. Steve's lips might as well have reached into his brain and switched off all the negative thoughts inside, because, well, he'd wanted this for so long. Even when it felt wrong to want it (after everything), he still did. He was pretty solidly sold on this. So Tony kissed back eagerly, to show him.

Steve could be right occasionally: they were definitely doing this. Everything else could wait.

 

**Fin.**

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is loved!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [No Directions (The Desire Remix)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13780623) by [msermesth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/msermesth/pseuds/msermesth)




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